


you got so many colours

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Defiant Queerness, Enjolras' parents kinda suck, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy pride month, M/M, Modern AU, That is literally the summary of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: “Darling, I will look as fucking queer as I possibly can, they’re not going to know what’s hit them. It’ll be like the dinosaurs all over again. Meteo-R-ite incoming.” // There is such a thing known as sartorial warfare. Grantaire will have you know that, with Courfeyrac and Jehan's help, he is a pro.





	you got so many colours

**Author's Note:**

> Indirectly-ish inspired by The_Librarina's fic, "Tweet Revenge", which is absolutely fabulous and you should go read, if you haven't already. Title from the epic "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters.
> 
> Possible triggers for family situations & uncomfortable assumptions, because E's family & their associates are not nice and accepting in this version.

 “No, no, no touching do not ruin your nails, R, Jehan will kill both of us,” Courfeyrac says, jerking the makeup box out of Grantaire’s reach. “Use your words.”

“But I can’t see the colours,” Grantaire whines.

“I have pink, red, dark blue, gold sparkly, or purple. I would suggest dark pink. You’re going pretty tonight, not full-out drag.”

“True,” Grantaire allows. “I’ll save that for next time.”

“If you ever get invited back. Pucker up.”

Grantaire proffers his face and lets Courfeyrac carefully dab the lipstick on. There are flecks of glitter in Courfeyrac’s dark eyebrows, sparkling gold and blue against his brown skin.

“Well this staring thing is intense,” Courfeyrac says. “I feel like a specimen. No, no, do not answer me, you are _so bad at letting people make you over._ Jehan, tell R to behave.”

“Behave,” Jehan says absently, not looking up from their book.

When Courfeyrac’s done, Grantaire says: “I can’t _wait_ to see their faces.”

“You are a very cute bombshell. Enjolras’ parents are still baffled by the fact they have a gay son. I can’t wait for them to meet someone who actually fulfils the queer stereotypes.”

“I live to serve, baby,” Grantaire pouts and does a shoulder shimmy. Courfeyrac laughs, offers the perfume. The floral smell is one you can just float away on. Grantaire’s never understood musk, or most men’s aftershaves. Perfume is supposed to smell _nice,_ not like the literal embodiment of toxic masculinity.

“Boyfriend’s here, R,” Jehan says from their perch in the windowseat. The rain spatters against the glass.

“I’ll go let him in.” Courfeyrac leaps up. “Get your shoes on! I want Enjolras to have the full effect of all our hard work.”

“Hard work,” Grantaire snorts, but gets up to do as he’s told, tugging at his jumpsuit. Suddenly, he feels slightly sick. If he had any choice in the matter, he’d have gone to the Enjolrases’ stupid summer party in jeans and Docs, but black tie apparently has to be respected and well, it’s the perfect opportunity to be obnoxious. He’d floated the idea to Enjolras in bed the morning after they’d got the invitation, and Enjolras had hummed, traced a finger along the bottom of Grantaire’s ribcage, sending pleasant shivers racing over his skin.

“Well,” he’d said, “okay. Maybe it'll finally get them to stop pretending I'm just going through a phase."

His tone had been light, but Grantaire had sensed the tautness behind it, tilted his head up to press a kiss to Enjolras’ mouth, trying to be comforting. Enjolras had responded happily for a moment, and then Grantaire had pulled away and said: “Darling, I will look as fucking queer as I possibly can. They’re not going to know what’s hit them. It’ll be like the dinosaurs all over again. Meteo-R-ite incoming.”

Enjolras had snort-laughed, pressed his forehead against Grantaire’s. “Anyway,” Grantaire had carried on, “Don’t you want to know how hot I look in cat eyes and red lipstick?”

“Is that even a question?” Enjolras had said, pulling Grantaire on top of him and kissing him. They haven’t spoken of it since, but Enjolras has been getting quieter and more tense as the party has got closer.

Grantaire hears feet on the stairs, Courfeyrac’s loud, excited voice answered by Enjolras, quiet and serious. Oh god. Grantaire knows Enjolras is dreading this party, has been dreading this for weeks, what if it makes it worse? What if they just need to blend in and get through the night and let his parents pretend that they’re “just friends” what if Enjolras doesn’t like it, thinks it’s too much? It’s only a jumpsuit, black with a sheer top and frilly cuffs, something no-one would blink twice at on a woman, but…

Courfeyrac kicks the door open. “Tah dah!” he says, extra jazz hands included for free as usual. “What do you think?”

Enjolras is standing in the doorway, and holy shit, Grantaire has never seen him in a tuxedo before, feels his stomach drop right through the floor. Part of him wishes they could avoid this stupid party all together, just go home and have fun sexy-times because _man,_ Enjolras is the _reason_ this kind of suit was invented. He looks like a movie star, long blonde hair gathered back neatly instead of in its usual mess, the sharp lines accentuating his slim, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted frame, mirroring the cut-glass angles of his face. He is a Greek statue brought to life and updated into the modern age. He is like the sun. Grantaire stares and stares and stares, trying to drink it all in, wondering how he can work this into his next art exhibition. 

Bizarrely, Enjolras is staring at Grantaire with much the same expression Grantaire knows must be on his own face, and Grantaire feels the warm weight of that knowledge settle on his shoulders like a (fake) fur stole.

“Well I would say something grand and eloquent but I'm kind of fucking speechless right now,” Grantaire says, eventually.

“You ? Speechless? Since when?” Courfeyrac snorts, and Jehan unfolds themselves from the window, grabs their crutch and limps over, taking Courfeyrac by the collar of his shirt.

“Let the love birds have their moment without you ruining it,” they say sternly, dragging Courfeyrac behind them. They give R a smile and shut the door firmly behind them. Grantaire hears Courfeyrac whining about being kicked out of his own apartment all the way down the stairs.

“You look incredible,” Enjolras says quietly, coming over and taking Grantaire’s hands.

“Maybe incredible’s a step too far, I definitely feel there’s some hierarchy of compliments and you are certainly at the apex, apex predator, yeah, who else predates on the rich and privileged…”

“Please, _please,_ just take a compliment, would you?” Enjolras’ face is very close, his eyes very blue. They’ve been dating nearly a year, and Grantaire will never get over how blue Enjolras’ eyes are. It’s the colour of something you can squeeze out of a paint tube, daub undiluted across a canvas when you want to make a statement. His finger brushes the shell of Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire, not for the first time, can’t believe he’s been this lucky. How the  _fuck_ did he manage to get here, from the arguments and misunderstandings and unresolved sexual tension of last June? How is this his life? Enjolras’ other hand has dropped to his waist, and Grantaire puts his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders leans in closer.

“You drive a hard bargain, gorgeous,” he says. Enjolras is smiling, properly, the kind he only saves for Grantaire and Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Am I allowed to kiss you or will that ruin the effect?”

“Maybe when we get there. I’ve always wanted to make out in a fancy cloak cupboard.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, voice low, “who am I to deny you that?”

**

Enjolras had already warned Grantaire about his parent’s house, about the valet and the grand entrance hall and everything with the lip-curl of distaste that would have told Grantaire everything he needed to know if he hadn’t already known it. For God’s sake, they live in the teeniest fourth-floor apartment in a walk up in a relatively run-down area of the city, and Enjolras had to rent a car for tonight. It’s more obvious than if “COMMUNIST” was stamped on Enjolras’ forehead. So anyway, Grantaire is forewarned but still pretty stunned as he navigates the stairs in the heeled boots he and Jehan had found in their local thrift store. There’s an honest-to-god butler waiting to take their coats, who barely raises a flicker of an eyebrow at Grantaire’s ensemble - and two uniformed people who are literally there to open the tall glass doors. It's like a fancy hotel. Grantaire can practically feel Enjolras gnashing his teeth.

The party is taking place in the ballroom and terrace, and it is full of old white people, distinguished looking men in suits similar to Enjolras, and slim, perfectly made-up women who look like they've never touched a piece of fast food in their entire lives. Grantaire can count exactly three people of ethnic minority in the room, thinks about his neighbourhood and his friendship group where, as white people, he and Enjolras are in the minority. There’s a wave of whispering and subtle stares as Enjolras and Grantaire enter, hand in hand, because _of course_ they're simply  _too_ polite to stare outright. Grantaire looks up at Enjolras’ set expression, squeezes his hand gently. After a moment, Enjolras squeezes back.

"It's like fucking Gossip Girl in here," Grantaire whispers. 

"Tell me about it."

"Wait, wait, I did  _not_ expect you to get that cultural reference. Since when have you watched Gossip Girl?"

"Courfeyrac, university," Enjolras says. "I did spend most of it reading Audre Lorde."

"Ah, phew, I thought a trash-TV watching Skrull had replaced my boyfriend for a second. I was about to go full Carol Danvers on you."

Enjolras is actually nearly smiling, is about to respond when someone calls his name - his  _first name,_ and yeah, sure sometimes Grantaire can be bothered to call him René, but let's be real, he's known Enjolras as Enjolras for so long it doesn't really make much difference. Why perfectly normal first names when you can have ridiculously unpronounceable surnames? A woman who _has_ to be a relation is gliding towards them on impossibly high heels, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed and her face set in a smile that must feel as fake as it looks. Grantaire knows. He knows fake smiles. There's no fooling him.

“I didn’t think you would grace us with your presence," she says, slightly patronising. Grantaire just about restrains a sarcastic, ' _when you invite someone somewhere, that tends to imply they're going to come unless they've told you otherwise.'_ Enjolras would not thank him, and Enjolras is stressed enough.

“Mother,” Enjolras says, to all outward appearances perfectly pleasant, accepting the cheek kisses. “Good to see you.”

“Yes, yes, I…” she blinks, as though this is more than she's used to. “It is good. Who’s this…friend…you brought?”

Apparently the willful obtuseness was not being exaggerated, but she’s giving him a look like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact he’s wearing earrings, lace, lipstick and high heels. Grantaire’s heart aches. His own biological family might be a fucking mess, but they’ve never been bothered by his queerness. To be bothered, he thinks, they’d have to care first, and he got used to the lack of that a long time ago.

“Lucien Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “And he’s not my friend, he’s my boyfriend.”

She just looks awkward. Grantaire gives her a shit-eating grin, shifts closer into Enjolras' side and flutters his eyelashes.

“Well. That’s…lovely…dear,” she says in a way that implies the exact opposite. “Perhaps stay away from your father. He’s cutting a deal tonight, you don’t want to rock the boat.”

“Of course, Mother,” Enjolras’ voice is icy. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“ _Now_ , René, I…oh, Madame Duplessis, how perfectly _charming_ to see you!”

She escapes in an elegant clattering of heels to go exclaim over another straight white woman's dress, and Grantaire feels Enjolras exhale, hears the whispers start up again. “You still want to stay?” he asks, quiet.

“Yes,” Enjolras says after a moment, turning into Grantaire, looking down. His voice quiet and fierce and oh-so-beautiful with it. This is the speech-making voice. This is the  _we're going to fucking show them voice._ This is the voice that Grantaire heard thundering from some church steps one rainy morning three years ago and went to go investigate, the one that makes Grantaire absolutely weak at the knees. “Yes, we are. We’re going to stay and we’re going to have fun, and we’re going to go find somewhere to make out and smudge your lipstick and show them that queer people exist and there’s absolutely _nothing_ they can do about it. Sounds good?”

“Can’t think of anything I’d like to do better,” Grantaire says, leaning up to press his mouth briefly to Enjolras’, heedless of all the stares. Enjolras smiles down at him and takes his hand, fingers running over Grantaire’s wrist.

They go around for a while and talk to a few people, who all seem baffled by the idea that a man wants to wear make up.

"Are you an actor?" one woman asks, tipsy. Her husband, a rugby-playing financier-type who is obviously straight as a plank of wood and into beer and tits and golf and screwing people over, looks deeply uncomfortable, as do the other knot of people he's currently standing with. Joys. God forbid they make the privileged people uncomfortable. 

"All the world's a stage, darling," Grantaire says, dramatically. Enjolras is having a heated, political debate with some high flying CEO behind him. "Andall the men and women merely players." 

"You know Shakespeare?"

"Surprisingly enough, I  _can_ read, old fellow. Being gay doesn't make one illiterate."

"Well, of course not," the cookie-cutter man in question splutters. "Just a surprise, that's all. We thought..."

"What?"

Grantaire stares the man in the eyes, feels like something not-quite alive at the bottom of a microscope. An amoeba. A fucking curiosity. God he hates them, he thinks, all of a sudden, all these people who've never once considered what it must be like to be different, to stand out because you want to hold your boyfriend's hand in the street or wear heels and glitter or not conform to the gender binary or the cisheteropatriarchal models of love.

"Gerald," one of the women says, embarrassed, dabbing at something invisible at the corner of her mouth. 

"Might as well say it to his face, Yvette. We thought you were an escort."

"Right. Lovely. As if Enjolras had to  _pay_ someone to be here, as if he's not the best person in this entire fucking room." The world has gone a little bit red and hazy around the edges. "Well, we've actually been together for nearly a year, and yeah," he shrugs, "don't knock skirts and nail-paint till you've tried it, old chap. I'm going to get a drink." 

He finds one of the waitstaff and she goes to find him a lemonade - sober is  _sober,_ even at parties, it's not been long enough that he trusts himself yet - and then he hangs around with her for a bit, chatting and trying to contain the seething rage in his chest. God, this  _sucks._ This is what Enjolras  _grew up with._ No wonder he turned out like he is. In other news, the waitress is great - just out of college, trying to save up for an apartment, hopefully going to go into art school, if she manages to get a scholarship. He writes down the name of his little gallery for her.

"Sometimes I need people to sit in," he says, handing the napkin to her. "If you want some experience."

She grins at him, pats his shoulder. "Thanks, I'll look you up. Don't let them get you down, huh? You look fabulous, and if you want my opinion," she leans in closer, "It must be really rather sad to be that insecure in their own happiness that they can't accept anything that deviates from their socially constructed norm, yeah?"

Grantaire blinks at her. "Couldn't have said it better," he says.

"Humanities student. We're the best at chatting shit," she gives him a salute, and disappears off to go collect glasses. 

Soon after that, Enjolras reappears and drags Grantaire into the library for a very enjoyable half hour making out against the books. “Sadly,” Enjolras says, “the butler would have an aneurysm if we tried to sneak past him into the cloakroom.”

“Oh the disappointment! You do me wrong, good sir,” Grantaire says, a little breathy because Enjolras is kissing his neck and suddenly he can’t breathe.

He sees a man who must be Enjolras’ father from a distance who catches sight of them slow dancing together when they emerge, dishevelled, from the library, rolls his eyes and quickly makes himself busy with another guest. Grantaire wants to smash something, so settles for dancing ever-more aggressively and inappropriately for the genteel music the band have been playing. Enjolras laughs at him as he tries to execute a slut-drop in the middle of the floor, and most of the guests are horrified and this is great, this is utterly fantastic, right up until Enjolras’ mother reappears and catches them as they’re taking a breather.

“I think you should probably leave,” she says, abruptly. “René, we’ll see you for brunch before we go to Martha’s Vineyard in a few weeks, but you’re making people uncomfortable, and as a hostess, I just can’t have that.”

Enjolras' face shuts down. “My pleasure, Mother. God forbid we inconvenience your guests. Come on, R."

“Wait for me in the car,” Grantaire lets go of his hand. “No, no, I just want a quick word with your mother. Stop giving me that look, you know you trust me.”

“Do I really,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but goes when Grantaire gives him a serious look. It’s only recently that Enjolras has learned to respond to it. Progress. Grantaire’s so proud. Enjolras’ mother shifts on her heels like she wants to run away. Grantaire gives her a long slow look.

“I’m not going to bother with the queer theory,” he says, “because it’s wasted on you. We love each other, he’s happy, and as mother, you should be pleased about that, not judging him for all his life choices and making him feel like shit about having to see you. The world has bigger problems than men who love men, and men who wear women’s clothes, so get the fuck over yourself and accept him for who he is, or just fuck off and let him get on with his life.”

Her mouth gapes open like a fish. Grantaire pats her shoulder with his gorgeous, glittery nails, bets that no-one other than her son has said anything like that to her in her whole life.

“Good talk,” he says, and clops away, leaving her speechless at the top of the stairs.

In the car, Enjolras is tapping his fingers against the wheel. “What did you…” he starts, but Grantaire leans over and kisses him.

“Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already said to her. Just, you know, sticking up for you. Because that’s what boyfriends do.” A pause. “God, I never want to go back there.”

Enjolras sighs, turns his face into Grantaire’s. “I know, I know. I just want to go home.”

“Want to see how long it takes me to get out of this jumpsuit?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Drive, drive, drive! The sooner we get home the sooner you get to see me in a thong.”

“You’re wearing a _thong_?”

“Of _course_ I am, what do you take me for?”

Enjolras is beaming at him in the particulate dark, the headlights making tracks down the long, elaborate driveway and illuminating the skeletal bars of the gates. “I love you,” he says, spontaneous and full of awe, like he can’t believe Grantaire’s his, and Grantaire’s heart is so full there’s a fair chance it’ll crack several of his ribs.

“Well,” he leans forward to put the radio on to hide his stupid grin, “it’s funny that, because I maybe perhaps love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was also inspired by seeing my friend Ki in his makeup for the first time, in which he looked absolutely excellent; Harry Styles' Met Gala look; and my feelings about Rocketman, which I got back from earlier this evening. Also the need to write fluff, because, certain time of year (argh!)
> 
> Come Tumblr with me: @barefoot-pianist.


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